


hand in unlovable hand

by courfeyrock



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, ben wyatt voice it's about the tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 19:30:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19707973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courfeyrock/pseuds/courfeyrock
Summary: “Goodnight, my dear,” he says, and Crowley swears, Aziraphale could call him my dear for six thousand more years and he still wouldn’t be able to get used to it.





	hand in unlovable hand

Crowley and Aziraphale are standing in Crowley’s tiny, sparse bedroom, and Aziraphale is scanning the space with an expression that Crowley can’t quite read.

“I could miracle us another bed, if you want me to,” Crowley says, suddenly insecure at how presumptuous he must seem. 

Neither of them really _need_ to sleep, of course, but it helps with maintaining sanity while inside their human bodies. And besides, it’s been a long day, and both of them could use a break. The weight of everything that has happened bears down heavy on Crowley, and he feels as though he’s underwater. He suspects that Aziraphale feels the same way from the way his eyelids keep drooping to a close, seemingly against his will.

“No, no, this will do.” Aziraphale sits down on the edge of the bed, the white of his coat especially stark against the black covers. “Better to not draw attention to ourselves right now.”

“Right, right.” Crowley remembers Aziraphale, fluorescent pink light leaking onto his face, eyes all wide like prey preparing to flee from a predator as he said: _you go too fast for me, Crowley._ “If you’re sure you’re comfortable with this.”

“Oh don’t be silly, of course I am,” Aziraphale says, his voice distorted by a particularly aggressive yawn. “I love this vessel, I truly do, but the fatigue is… inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient indeed.” Crowley slouches onto the bed, kicking out his legs in the most dramatic fashion possible. He hopes that putting on such a show will distract from the fact that _(curse this wretched human body)_ he’s trembling a little.

Aziraphale stretches out on next to him, close enough that Crowley can feel the heat of him and damn it, he’s _so tired_ , but he knows that he won’t be able to sleep tonight.

“So!” Aziraphale exclaims, fiddling with his hands in his lap. “Shall we?”

Crowley’s head snaps around as if on a swivel. “Shall we… what?”

“Go to sleep? Normally I would love to stay up and have a drink or a chat but you see I really am exhausted and I--”

“Yes, yes, of course.” _Idiot,_ Crowley thinks. _I am such an idiot._ "I'll uh, I'll sleep underneath the covers, and you can sleep on top." He waves his hand in a forcefully casual gesture that he hopes conveys just how normal it is for two platonic friends to be having this conversation.

Aziraphale gives him a strange look, but says: "Yes, that's quite alright."

He then snaps, and his usual uniform is replaced by a ridiculous set of tartan pajamas. 

“What? Angel, I thought we weren’t drawing attention to ourselves.”

Aziraphale gives Crowley the sheepish grin he’s come to know all too well, and says: “Right, yes, I’m sorry, but I just wanted a little comfort.”

Crowley aches; this is all just too much for him. He considers miracling up some pajamas for himself, but the prospect of Aziraphale seeing him in anything _soft_ is mortifying, so he decides to just take off his shoes and call it a day.

Unsure of what to do, Crowley burrows under the covers and lays on his side facing away from Aziraphale. 

“Goodnight, Angel.”

“You’re not really going to sleep in _that?_ You need some proper pajamas, Crowley, it’s really quite important to getting a good night’s sleep.”

Safely under the covers and out of Aziraphale’s sight, Crowley conjures up a simple black t-shirt and sweatpants. Aziraphale gives him an infuriatingly smug look in response.

“Goodnight, my dear,” he says, and Crowley swears, Aziraphale could call him _my dear_ for six thousand more years and he still wouldn’t be able to get used to it.

\---

Crowley really had planned on being good and staying under the covers, insuring the impossibility of actual physical contact between him and the angel, but he’s _sweltering_ , so it’s really not his fault that he feels the need to lay on top of them. And if it happens to bring him closer to Aziraphale, well, that wasn’t Crowley’s _intention_ , of course, simply an unavoidable consequence.

After snaking himself as quietly as possible out from under the blankets, Crowley lays on his back just inches away from Aziraphale. He is painfully aware of the minuscule stretch of mattress between them, and sleep feels farther away than ever. Crowley can’t help himself--he turns onto his side towards the angel. The soft outline of Aziraphale asleep next to him makes Crowley practically _melt._

After a bit of ( _completely not creepy_ ) staring, an impulse has seized Crowley, and he is fully aware that he’s a complete idiot, but he stretches his hand forward and places it as gingerly as possible on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He wants to snatch it back instantly, terrified of how the angel will react. But then he remembers how he’d expected Aziraphale to say no to staying over at his place, and how he’d then expected him to be horrified at the idea of the two of them sleeping in the same bed. Crowley knows that his judgement is probably cloudy, what with his body trying to pull him down into sleep and all, but he doesn’t care. There’s a possibility, however slim, that Aziraphale might not turn him away. 

And instead of batting his hand away like Crowley figures he might, Aziraphale does the unthinkable. He clasps Crowley’s hand in his own and drags his arm forward so that it ends up covering him like a blanket. After keeping it resting on him for a moment, Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand up to his mouth and kisses it, his lips light as hummingbird wings. Crowley is absolutely certain that his body cannot withstand this, and that it’s only a matter of time before it just decides to up and self destruct. Aziraphale, with no regard whatsoever for Crowley’s sanity, gives his hand a small squeeze, and murmurs “my darling” against his skin. 

Crowley shivers at the heat of the angel’s breath, but he knows that he shouldn’t get too ahead of himself. Aziraphale must be deep in some dream about a past lover, probably that _bastard_ Oscar Wilde. Crowley wants to curl up around Aziraphale, wants nothing more than to be entirely engulfed in him, but he knows that if Aziraphale somehow wakes up to all of this, he’ll be horrified. So, though his body screams for him to get closer, Crowley draws his hand back and turns to face away from his angel again.

Crowley’s whole body turns tense as a board when Aziraphale flips around in the bed and sidles up to Crowley, loping his arm around Crowley’s shoulder. “Crowley, my dear, is something wrong?”

Crowley turns over to face him and _Christ--Satan--whoever’s listening--_ their noses are nearly touching, and he’s going to lose his mind.

“I’m--I--” Crowley is scrambling now. “I don’t _understand_ you! What do you want? I don’t know if I’m getting the wrong idea, or if you’re actually, if we’re actually going to...” 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, his voice feather-soft. He cups his hand around Crowley’s jaw, and tilts his chin until-- _oh, wow--_ their lips are touching, light and slow at first, but then faster, hungrier, and Aziraphale’s hands are under his shirt, raking down his back. Crowley can barely respond before the angel drags him forward, pressing their hips together, which makes Crowley let out the most ungodly sound he’s ever heard (which, for a demon, is saying something) and he can’t take it anymore, he just can’t do it.

It takes every ounce of self control he has, but Crowley pulls away from Aziraphale.

“Angel…” Crowley doesn’t know quite what he wants to know, and he stumbles a bit before settling on a question. “What is going on?”

“Darling, whatever do you mean?”

“Six thousand years. I’ve been trying to _tell_ you that I--” his voice breaks. “I don’t know what this is to you, but I’ve never… I can’t do this if it doesn’t mean anything to you. I’m sorry, I hate myself for it, but it just… It’ll ruin me, Angel. It’ll just ruin me.”

Hell’s sake, Crowley’s nearly _crying_ now, as if he hasn’t already embarrassed himself enough by behaving like an insecure teenage girl about to lose her virginity on prom night. 

“Oh, my love. I am so sorry.”

And that’s it, it’s over now, Crowley blew everything with his _ridiculous_ feelings. But wait…

“Your… love?”

Aziraphale looks away sheepishly. After a moment, he nods. Crowley expects, no, _needs_ him to say more, but he stays silent.

“You love everything, angel. It’s your job,” Crowley says, because surely Aziraphale didn’t mean...

“I don’t love you in the angel way, Crowley.” Aziraphale runs a finger down his jawline, which makes him shudder. 

“Oh,” says Crowley. He has no idea what that means.

“I don’t even think I have access to that kind of love anymore.”

“Oh,” Crowley says again, but this time, he knows exactly what Aziraphale means. Crowley remembers his Fall, how all of God’s love drained out of him in an instant, leaving nothing but a vast hollowness in its wake. “I’m sorry, Aziraphale.”

“My dear, I love you in the _human_ way,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley’s silly mortal heart leaps in his chest. “And it’s really a much better way to love, don’t you think?”

Crowley’s face breaks out into a smile rarely seen by anyone but his angel, the only living being able to make him part with his trademark scowl.

“I love you too,” Crowley says, and it feels like a bag of bricks has been lifted off of his chest, a bag that had only gotten heavier and heavier over the centuries. Now, feeling lighter than ever, he can finally breathe. “As if I haven’t made it obvious enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“Aziraphale, are you _completely_ brain-dead?”

“I’d like to think not,” Aziraphale huffs, and Crowley is incredulous. 

“You mean you didn’t know?” 

“No,” Aziraphale says, drawing his eyebrows together as if straining to remember something. “I mean, occasionally you would say something, and I’d _suspect_ , but I really never thought…” He pauses. “I didn’t want to get my hopes up.

Crowley laughs because he knows that if he doesn’t, he’ll cry. Aziraphale leans in and kisses him again, dragging his hands through his hair as he does so.

“How could you think this means nothing to me?” Aziraphale asks, voice close to breaking, breath brushing against Crowley’s lips. “You’re my best friend.”

Crowley leans in slightly, pressing their foreheads together and bringing his hand up to the back of Aziraphale’s neck.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just didn’t know,” he says. “I’d say that you’re my best friend too, but it wouldn’t be much of a compliment considering you’re my only friend.”

Aziraphale tilts his head to the side in a way that makes him look strikingly similar to a miniature poodle. “What about the human? The one whose death you were so upset about when I found you in that bar?”

Crowley brings a hand down to Aziraphale’s shoulder and tightens his grip. “If you’re trying to have a go at me, Aziraphale, it’s not funny.”

“You don’t remember? You said you’d lost your best friend. You were nearly crying, Crowley. This person must have meant a lot to you.”

“Aziraphale, I’m begging you to really think about what you’ve just said. About what had been happening when I said that.”

Aziraphale mulls over this for a second, and Crowley absolutely cannot believe his obliviousness.

“Oh,” he says, finally. “You were talking about me.”

“‘Course I was, Angel.” Crowley shakes his head and tries not to let the words catch in his throat as he speaks. “I thought I’d lost everything that day. Everything.”

Crowley is crying a little now, but he’s too overwhelmed to feel any real shame about it. Aziraphale reaches up and brushes the tears from beneath his eyes.

“My dear…” he says, and this time, it’s Crowley who gets closer and presses their lips together. Aziraphale responds by flicking his tongue into Crowley's mouth and digging his nails into his hips. Crowley makes a noise that sounds something like “mmhhhnnng” and he just can’t take it anymore, this distance behind them, so he miracles their clothes away, not caring who in Heaven or Hell may take notice. 

Aziraphale pulls back and arches an eyebrow at Crowley.

“You absolute _fiend_ ,” he teases, though there’s no venom in it. “Don’t _tempt_ me.”

“Oh, Angel,” Crowley replies, dragging Aziraphale’s hand down to his hip, and pulling him in for a kiss before saying: “I’m afraid that’s my job.”

**Author's Note:**

> yes I did just watch broadchurch season 2 episode 4 what about it?
> 
> thank you for reading <3333 i can't believe i really wrote fic in the year of our lord 2019 but!! i love these 2 so much i couldn't help myself


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